


A Cold Night in April

by violue



Series: The Spirit of Lawrence High Verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-31 20:37:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3991939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violue/pseuds/violue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that Dean has some time to think, he's kind of freaking out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cold Night in April

**Author's Note:**

> After a day of not working on my DCBB like I promised myself I would, I decided to turn off the 24 DVD I was watching and go to sleep. And then somehow I wrote this instead. Many, many thanks to [Kris](http://kelisab.tumblr.com/) for living in Japan and thus being awake for some 4am beta action.

Sam seems to be under the impression that once they’re alone, Dean’s going to start spilling his guts about everything. Dean doesn’t, though. He spends the ride home staring out the window, flat out ignoring Sam’s searching glances and pointed throat clearing. When they get home Dean goes right to his room, locks the door, and crawls into bed.

The high he was feeling from being with Castiel, that’s worn off. The adrenaline from recovering his memories, also long gone. Now, Dean just feels troubled.

His memories had come back to him all at once, and now it truly feels like all the ghost shit _just_ happened, and everything feels… weird. Walking and actually feeling his feet touch the ground, feeling surfaces with his fingertips, breathing. As soon as he was back in the car, it all came rushing in, and it’s so much.

It’s _too much_.

He lies in his bed for hours, mostly awake, but occasionally there’s the sense that more time has suddenly passed, and he knows he must have fallen asleep. He tries not to freak out. It wasn’t just yesterday that he was drifting through the halls of his old high school. It’s April. He woke up four months ago. Lots of things have happened since then. He’s talked to his family, his friends, trained his legs to walk again, and even watched all the Harry Potter movies. He tries to make himself understand that, but he can’t. That soul deep loneliness feels _fresh_ now, and Dean feels like he should be happy, but he’s not.

Maybe those seven months he spent unable to cry are catching up with him.

He looks at his clock and sees that it’s midnight. He sighs, rolling out of bed. He finally changes out of his pajamas. He puts on his favorite pair of jeans, his boots, a black t-shirt, and a green flannel shirt. His ghost uniform. It’s not the same flannel he was wearing the night Alastair pushed him; that got destroyed along with his old leather jacket, but it looks almost the same. He slips into the bathroom and shaves his beard, then fixes his hair into a style close to the way he used to wear it.

He stares into the mirror for a long time.

Mirrors were interesting when he was a ghost. He didn’t have a reflection, even to himself. That was always hard to wrap his mind around. He could see himself, Castiel could see him, but when he looked in a mirror, there was nothing. It was incredibly unnerving. He mostly avoided mirrors when he was in his coma.

He’d forgotten what he looked like when he was a ghost. After the first few weeks, he just couldn’t remember what his face looked like, not exactly, the way a person might forget the details of a friend’s face if they haven’t seen them for a long time. It wasn’t until Sam started school, and put up that ridiculous pie contest photo in his locker, that Dean could remember what he looked like. That had been a relief.

Dean can see himself now. He looks tired, maybe a little haunted.

An uneasy shudder ripples through his body. He doesn’t belong here. This house is for the living, and Dean is… no. Dean is alive. Dean can breathe, Dean can cry, Dean can see himself in the mirror. Dean is alive.

Dean just needs some fresh air.

Everyone is asleep, so it’s easy for Dean to sneak out of the house. And he does have to _sneak_ out of the house. His family has been chaperoning him everywhere, even with his legs working mostly fine. It hasn’t been a big deal. Dean’s friends are all out of town, and he can’t work quite yet, so he hasn’t had a need to go many places, but it does suck being nineteen and having your mom or your kid brother acting as a babysitter when you want to go see a movie.

Driving his car is still out of the question, so Dean walks. He knows exactly where he’s going, because suddenly he’s homesick for the place that had acted as his prison.

He’s been walking for over ten minutes before he realizes it’s actually really cold out. He regrets not bringing a jacket, but not enough to turn around and go back.

Besides, he’s _cold._ If he can feel cold, he’s alive.

God, he’s crashing hard. There’s not a therapist on this planet that he can talk to about this.

When he finally reaches Lawrence High School, he’s pretty sure he’s been walking for half an hour. The school looms over him, and he has the dual sensation of feeling like he hasn’t seen the place in ages, and feeling like he was just here a day or two ago. It’s incredibly disturbing.

Dean’s head hurts.

The school’s locked up tight as a drum, which is a shame, since Dean’s fucking cold. He feels himself forming a tiny smile. He knows one spot that’s probably open. He walks around the school, staring at the stars, feeling the cold air fill his lungs. It’s quiet, but it’s always quiet here at night. At least now he can hear his own footsteps.

When he gets to the soccer field, the light is on in the equipment shed. It often was, even during the summer. Even when the school was dark and silent, for some reason the staff could rarely be assed to shut off the light in this shed. Dean was always grateful for it, though. It was something to focus on in all the darkness and relative silence. There were nights over the summer when rowdy teenagers showed up to drink, and have sex, and feel like rebels, but those nights were rare. Most nights the only sounds Dean could hope to hear were the field crickets, the hum of the light in the equipment shed, and the occasional passing car.

He pulls the door open and steps inside, freezing at the shocked blue eyes staring at him from the opposite wall. Castiel is bundled up in winter clothing, a thermos on the floor next to the stack of exercise mats he’s sitting on, a book in his lap.

“Cas,” Dean mutters, voice sounding wrecked to his own ears. He steps inside, pulling the door closed behind him. The air is still in here, giving him the illusion that it’s a little warmer.

“What… how did you…” Castiel trails off, looking oddly sheepish. “Hello, Dean.”

“Can’t say I was expecting to see anyone here in the middle of the night.”

“I… neither can I.”

Dean looks around, at the way the shed is tidier than it used to be, and how there are more mats stacked on the floor for Castiel to sit on than there used to be. “Come here often?”

Castiel stares down at the book in his lap, picking idly at the spine. “I do.”

Dean definitely feels warmer now, an odd burst of adrenaline flickers through his body. “You come out here when you miss me,” he says slowly, though he’s mostly sure of the answer.

Castiel nods, the movement barely noticeable. “Yes.”

“Even tonight?”

Castiel frowns. “Yes.”

“But I’m out of the coma.”

“You were out of the coma every time I came here in the past few months.”

Dean kneels in front of Castiel. This close he can see the blush staining Castiel’s cheeks. Castiel is embarrassed that he’s here.

“I wish I’d been here.”

“Me too.”

“I’m here now,” Dean says, reaching out and grabbing one of Castiel’s hands.

“You’re cold,” Castiel says. He pulls away, unzipping his coat and wrapping it around Dean. Some small, irritating part of Dean wants to protest, but the rest of him is cold, so he doesn’t object. Once the coat is on Castiel takes Dean’s hands, breathing on them and rubbing them with his own to warm them up. “Why _are_ you here?”

“I’m having some trouble adjusting to being… alive again,” Dean says slowly, transfixed by the sight of their hands together.

“You’ve been awake for months.”

“I know. It doesn’t feel like that right now. It still feels like it just happened.”

Castiel reaches into the pocket of the coat Dean’s now wearing, pulling out a grey knitted scarf and wrapping it around Dean’s neck before reaching forward and pulling the coat’s hood over Dean’s head.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says earnestly, “I can’t even begin to imagine how this all must feel for you.”

“Disorienting. I think this is going to take some ah… sussing out. I can’t really go to my therapist with this, not if I don’t want to get thrown in the psych ward.”

Castiel scoots to the side, making room for Dean. When Dean sits down Castiel hands him the thermos. It’s not piping hot, but it’s warm, and when Dean opens the lid the smell of hot chocolate fills his nose. He takes a drink, sighing dreamily.

“You can talk to me about it,” Castiel says.

Dean looks down at his coat covered arms and the thermos in his hands as he screws the lid back on.

“You can talk to me about anything,” Castiel adds.

Dean looks at Castiel, then. He sets the thermos down and wraps his arms around Castiel, kissing him chastely and hugging him tight.

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean murmurs, “I think I’ll take you up on that later.”

“Later, then. What about now?”

Dean shifts until he’s lying with his head in Castiel’s lap. “Read to me?” He bats his eyelashes and smiles up at Castiel for good measure, and Castiel lets out a low chuckle.

“Shall I start at the beginning?”

“Well I’ll be confused if you don’t,” Dean says, shrugging.

Castiel nods, opening up his book and reading in a clear, gentle voice. “It was little more than three miles from the Wall into the Old Kingdom, but that was enough. Noonday sunshine could be seen on the other side of the Wall in Ancelstierre, and not a cloud in sight…”

“Does that mean there's no sunshine on one side of the wall?”

“Dean, this is the _beginning,_ have faith that your question will be answered if I keep reading.”

“Touchy, touchy.”

“I just think it’s better for the narrative flow if you aren’t interrupting to ask questions.”

“Alright, alright,” Dean says. He closes his eyes. “Go on. You said noonday sunshine could be seen.”

Castiel leans forward, kissing Dean’s forehead. “Noonday sunshine could be seen on the other side of the Wall in Ancelstierre, and not a cloud in sight. Here, there was a clouded sunset, and a steady rain had just begun to fall, coming faster than the tents could be raised...”

  
  


  
  


_It’s good to be alive_ , Dean thinks to himself with a smile.

 

**Author's Note:**

> (Castiel's reading Sabriel, which is my favorite book ever and some day I want to do some sort of Abhorsen Destiel AU.)


End file.
